


Kings Among Runaways

by fitztomania



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Canon Timeline, Canon-Typical Violence, Jack is a dick!, Light Angst, M/M, bi!Racetrack, queer slurs, questioning!Spot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitztomania/pseuds/fitztomania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Spot thinks about it a lot, actually. Well, "think" maybe isn't the right word.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Track Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot thinks about it a lot, actually. Well, "think" maybe isn't the right word.

The reaction—to Jack's new look, to Weasel touching him, to the shit he says to Mouth before shoving him back into the riot officers with a sneer—is predictable.

Spot and Race are at the front of the fray and the first to start shouting, but their voices are quickly swallowed up by the rest of them. Blink is thumping into Spot's back, pushing him forward, and Boots is on the other side of Race, screaming like a maniac, and Spot's yelling too, threats, some empty, some maybe not so empty. There's rage all around him, and three officers holding back a flailing, feral Mouth, and Jack—Jack is just _standing_ there, with his jaw set, doing _nothing_ , in that infuriating patented Jack Kelly way. Just looking at him makes Spot's hands curl into fists and his gut catch on fire. Doesn't he _care_?

The boys are surging, rolling, crashing against the line of policeman like a wave breaking on a cliff, and Spot stumbles. He grabs onto Racetrack and pulls himself up, screaming with renewed vigor, curses and threats and _promises—_ and Jack's face changes, just barely noticeably. He looks (almost, faintly) scared.

And Spot latches onto that with a savage sort of glee, turning to Race to loudly mock Cowboy and all his abandoned bullshit tough-guy swagger—"aw, _look_ , Race, he's _scared_ now"—but Race. . . Race.

Race is _gone_. Race is like a man possessed, his face contorted with fury and his eyes almost black as he spits hot venom at his leader and friend. His split lip is bleeding again, painting his teeth. He doesn't seem to feel the crush of bodies against his back and he barely blinks when an elbow catches him in the side.

And it might be okay—they're all pissed here, every last one of them, and every last one of them has the God-given right to be; hadn't they all followed Jack, hadn't they all lost wages and stolen and scrapped and _bled_ for him?—it might be fine, if Spot couldn't hear, now that he's looking at him, every word he's saying. At this moment Racetrack Higgins, who hates violence, who hates fighting and never, _ever_ threw a punch in his life if he could help it, is struggling to get past the cop in front of him with his fists clenched, screeching how if Jack Kelly ever dares to show his fuckin' rat face on the Lower East Side again, they'll be hosing his brains off the pavement.

It might not be cause for concern from anyone else, but Jack is the only other person who knows Race even half as well as Spot Conlon does, and right now Jack is staring straight at him with that jittery, uneasy look usually reserved for Spot Conlon In A Mood.

Spot leans down, trying not to buckle forward as he gets right in Race's ear. "Come on, man, let's get outta here."

Race doesn't budge. Spot throws an arm around his chest and _pulls_. "RACE. COME _ON_."

He gets his other arm around Race's middle and yanks again, harder, and Racetrack fights him but Spot drags him forcefully back, away from the front and out where they can't even see the cops anymore. Race shoves away from him and whirls around with his hands up and Spot braces himself for a punch, but Race grabs his face and crushes their mouths together.

Spot breaks away, looking around wildly (because even though there are definitely bigger things to worry about right now, that kind of shit that can get you killed in Brooklyn), but no one is paying them any attention. Race is hysterical, sagging against him, incoherent frantic sounds falling out of his mouth mixed with words Spot is barely catching.

"Everybody," he shouts, "everybody's gone—Jack—Crutchy— _you—_ "

Spot takes another quick glance around them, alarmed, and closes his arms around Race again. He tastes blood. "Race, I'm here," he barks. "I got you. We're goin'. Okay?"

"You leave—every time—and _Jack—_ "

"Jack don't matter."

Race moans. Spot presses his face down into the side of his head and says, "TONY. We're goin' home. Come on."

That seems to shake him. Spot keeps his arms fixed around him as they start walking, pushing through the crowd.

 

***

 

By the time the lodging house is in sight Race is barely holding himself up anymore, wilted against Spot like a ragdoll. In just the few blocks they've walked, all the fight's gone out of him. Spot's been talking the whole time. Stories, shit about Jack, anything. He needs to talk, because talking is the only thing he's good at and Race is freaking him the hell out.

"C'mon, we're almost there. Just a little bit more."

"'M so tired, Spot," Race mumbles.

"I know. Almost there, promise. Hey, I been thinkin' a lot, 'member we used to play David and Goliath when we were kids? And we were both too small to be Goliath so it had to be Vanni, and you really hit him in the head with a rock that one time, and he bled all over the place, and your mamma wouldn't speak to you for a week?"

He props Race up with one arm to get the door of the lodging house open and heaves him up the stairs to the first bunkroom.

Spot scans the line of beds for Racetrack's name, and finds it at the end of the row, next to the window. He smiles a little in spite of the situation, because _goddamn_ _right_ Racetrack Higgins gets a window bunk. The second Spot gets him sat down he collapses, completely missing the pillow.

"Hang on there, sleepy." Spot leans over and tugs on him, pulling him center on the thin mattress, then kneels down and starts working on one of Race's shoes.

"Quit pullin' on me, 'm beat," Race groans, throwing his arms over his head.

"You're not sleepin' with your damn shoes on. Your nonna would rise from the grave and kill me." He gets one off, letting it fall to the floor with a thud, and yanks the other one toward him. Race is out cold before it's even off his foot.

Spot sinks back on his heels and takes a moment, the first he's gotten in a few days, to just look at him.

Race looks like he's been through a wringer. They all do, really, they're all scraped up and most of them are sporting black eyes from the rally the other night or the fight before it, but Race had gotten the living hell beaten out of him at the rally before he got dragged off unconscious and thrown in a holding cell, and God knew what else had happened in the time between—Spot had seen him go down and tried to get to him, but he'd been up in the mezzanine, firing off rounds with his slingshot, and when he swung his legs over the edge to jump down someone (a goon or a cop, at this point he thinks it's kinda all the same) had grabbed his arms and yanked him back and thrown him to the carpeted floor, and he got worked over pretty bad himself.

Not nearly as bad, though. Race's whole face is a mess of ugly purpled bruises and scabbed-over splits.

He stares at him for a little while longer, surveying the damage. Then he stands, takes a cigarette and a match from the bedside drawer, opens the window, and climbs up into the frame.

At least he's sleeping. If you don't count the hard benches in the city jail, none of them have really slept in days. Spot certainly hasn't,  even though he'd had a cell all to himself (being the most feared figure in Brooklyn has its perks from time to time), and he's definitely starting to feel it. Race deserves it more right now, though.

Spot realizes he's still staring at him and looks away, lighting his cigarette. The sun's too bright for today, it's coloring everything wrong. He can still hear the shouting from here. It sounds less frenzied, though, less bloodthirsty. Like it's dying down. He wonders if Jack is still standing there in his new monkey suit. He feels shitty for leaving, but all his younger kids are back home and all the older ones are smart enough to book if anything happens.

What he'd like to do, if he's being honest with himself—what he _would've_ done today if he'd thought Race could make it more than a couple of blocks—is take Race back to Brooklyn with him, to the little one-bedroom he rents. Let him get a proper night's sleep on a real bed for a change.

He thinks about it a lot, actually. Well, "think" maybe isn't the right word. It comes up a lot, and whenever it does he has to tell himself it's _just_ : just history, just respect, just professional courtesy. He doesn't let himself think about any other— _motivations—_ he might have, or even where he'd sleep if Race stayed over. He's a hardworking kid and they go back a long way, and that's it.

But today, Race had kissed him.

On the spur of the moment, in a blind panic, sure, but Race _kissed_ him. So he allows himself to crack open that particular door, just a smidge, and take a look behind it for the first time in years.

 

***

 

There's a creaking noise behind him, and Spot internally jumps, feeling cold shame wash over him like he's been caught doing something awful. He glances back over and sees Race stretching in his bunk; how long has he been sitting here?

Race yawns and squints into the light of the window. "Hey."

"Hey."

Race sighs and sits up on his elbows. He pulls his watch out of his vest pocket, looks at it, and groans. "Christ, today's never gonna end. Ain't you tired?"

"Course I am, 'm exhausted."

"You goin' anywhere?"

Spot looks down at his cigarette and sees it's mostly ash. "Wasn't plannin' on it."

"You wanna, I 'unno. Try and sleep some?"

He looks over at Race, feeling those cold prickles of shame again. Race is giving him kind of a funny look. Kind of an unreadable look. "Whaddya mean?"

Kind of a look like he thinks Spot might be an idiot. "I mean, it occurs to me that we're in an empty room full of empty beds, and that if you're exhausted and you're not goin' anywhere, you might wanna grab one and knock out for a coupla hours."

Spot scoffs. "Spot Conlon don't need sleep. Spot Conlon survives on air and sunshine."

"Spot Conlon looks like hell," Race counters, tugging off his vest and starting on his suspenders. "Spot Conlon looks like he could use some fuckin' shuteye."

Spot watches him for a long moment and considers. "Only if you're offerin'."

"I'm offerin'. This is traditionally what an offer looks like."

Spot stubs out his wasted cigarette on the outside wall, just under the windowsill, and drops his feet to the floor. He feels itchy.

He doesn't know why this is such a big deal. He needs the sleep. There are thirty empty bunks here he can get it in and a guaranteed uninterrupted few hours in which to get it. Race is offering. It's a no-brainer.

But Race _kissed_ him.

He toes the door open just a little wider.

"Where d'you want me?" he asks, leaning down to pull off his shoes.

Race slumps down back onto his pillow, yawning. "Anywhere you want. No one's gonna kick you out."

Spot takes a slow few steps over to the front of Race's bunk, and then around to the other side. His fingers are twitching.

Any other bunk, and nothing will change. Doesn't matter how close. It could even be the one next to his (which looks like Blink's) or the one over his, with paint on the sheets. Any bed will do. Spot gets to sleep and Race gets to sleep and the world keeps spinning.

Nothing changes.

Everything stays the same.

Spot feels something small inside of him snap as he nudges the mattress with his shin and says, "Shove over."

 

***

 

When Racetrack wakes up, it's getting dark out. He hates it when that happens. It's disorienting, like waking up in a coffin.

He's not alone, either. It takes him longer than he's entirely comfortable with to remember it's Spot Conlon curled around him, and not one of the little kids who got scared in the night. He's clingy like one of the little kids though, long limbs stretched over and tangled up with his. And _warm_.

Race shifts against him. Pain spikes through his chest and he bites down on a cry; one of Spot's arms is wormed under his upper back and the other is wrapped tight around his bruised ribs.

"Spot," he gasps, scrabbling at his arm with sleepy, useless fingers.

Spot's breathing hitches and he mumbles into the back of Race's neck, "Whatta you squirmin' for."

"I can't _breathe—_ get off—"

Spot's whole body jerks suddenly and he yanks both his arms back like Racetrack is a hot stove. " _Shit_. 'M sorry."

Race sits up, coughing, and the bed dips next to him and then Spot is gone. It feels like he's dying, like he got trapped at the bottom of that crushing riot at the end of the rally. Like when he used to get beat up on when he first joined up with the newsies, kicked to the ground with his papers dropped on his chest.

Something touches his arm. He jumps. It's Spot, holding out a mug of water and still looking pretty out of it. He takes it and gulps it down.

"Thanks," he says, wiping his mouth. His stomach is still jumping, but less urgently.

Spot nods, scratching the back of his messy blond head. "You okay?"

"Yeah, 'm a'right."

Spot flops back down next to Racetrack and folds his arms behind his head, closing his eyes. "You scared me."

"Sorry."

"'Sa'right. You been scarin' me all day."

Race joins him on the worn mattress, easing himself down onto his back and then over onto his other side, facing him. "I know," he says, more than a little embarrassed. ""M sorry."

"'Sa'right," Spot says again. Like that's the end of it, he doesn't need to say any more.

It's silent for a while and Race is just at the edge of falling asleep again when he hears Spot's voice, quieter this time, almost a whisper, "Race, are we gonna talk about this?"

Race feels icy prickles around the edge of his consciousness. "Talk about what?"

"'Bout earlier. You. . . freakin' out, like that. I never seen you like that before."

Race shakes his head, thinking about Jack in his new suit and his snide, smug face. Dull anger bubbles up warm in his belly. "I don't wanna—'m not ready to talk about that yet."

"The other thing, then."

"What other thing?"

Spot's hands are in front of his chest now, fidgeting with the ring he always wears. Race wants to catch his hands and steal a look at it. He's never gotten a good look. "You kissed me."

Race's chest catches and he coughs again. "Yeah."

"You mean to?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Race weighs his options, the potential outcome of anything he could say here, but it's tough. They've never talked about this; he has no _context_. To Racetrack, context is everything. It's a lot easier to act when you know how your partner (or _opponent_ ) is going to react. He doesn't know what Spot is thinking right now, and that's a problem that could end in a busted head.

Spot doesn't seem coiled to strike, though. He seems more. . . Nervous. Tired and nervous.

And he's _here_ , he climbed into bed with Race. That has to count for something. "Shit, I dunno. Why does anyone kiss anyone, Spot? I wanted to. 'Ve wanted to for a long time. Wasn't exactly how I pictured it, but. . . " He sighs and looks at Spot's hands again, waiting for a response.

Spot mulls that over for a minute. He doesn't look like he's getting ready to throw a punch. He doesn't even look like he's considering getting up and getting as far away from Racetrack as possible. He just looks thoughtful.

Race feels suddenly bold. "What about you?"

Spot does look at him then, throwing him a sharp glance. "What _about_ me?"

"Thirty empty beds, you got into mine. Why?"

Spot's tongue darts out of the corner of his mouth to wet his lips, and he says, "Wanted to."

"Why?" Race presses.

"I wanted to—" Spot breaks off, shaking his head. Cards his fingers back through his hair, pulling it up from his forehead. "I—fuck, it sounds queer."

Race snorts humorlessly. "I got a headline for you, Spotty, _I'm_ queer." Spot rolls his head to look at him again, blond brows pulled down and knitted together in the middle, and Race forcefully pushes the images that come—Spot shoving him off his own bed and kicking him in the face, breaking his nose; Spot beating him in the street with his cane; Spot and his boys heaving him off the side of the Brooklyn Bridge—out of his brain. _Too late now_. "At least half. 'Sides, 's just you and me here."

Spot swallows hard. "I _wanted_ ," he says, deliberately, like Race is daring him to, "to touch you."

Race frowns, confused. "You touch me all the time." He does, though. Slaps on the back, tugs on the arm. Grabs onto Race for balance on nights when they're out on the town and plastered out of their minds, not that those happen terribly often. (He would never, ever tell Spot that his skin burns for hours whenever it happens, or that he's thought about kissing him those times, too, alcohol and Spot's simple nearness making Race a little braver.) And today, pulling him through that crowd. Holding him up on the way home.

Spot gives him a pained look and says, in a tone that plainly expresses how much he'd rather not be saying it at all, "I mean, in a. . . more-than-strictly-good-pals capacity."

Race feels instantly stupid. And hot, hot all over. But underneath that—a quiet, fizzling fragment of validation.

"You can, y'know," he says quietly. His mouth is dry. "Anytime you want."

He can practically _feel_ all the air go out of the room.

Spot eyes him with apprehension and something else Race can't quite put a word to. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Spot's fingers have gone very still. "Now?"

Something in the way he says it, just that one little word, makes Race's chest crack open. He stretches an arm out—ignoring the noise in the side of his chest—and pulls Spot's right hand in toward him, the one with the heavy brass ring on it. He tugs the ring up and off Spot's finger, twisting it where it sticks around the first knuckle. Spot lets him, watches him do it. He's so still Race isn't even sure he's breathing.

The top of the ring is wide and flat, with a design cut into it. It's too dark, and Race's eyes too fuzzy, to see properly what it is. "What is it?"

"Bird," Spot says. His voice is deathly quiet. "For, um. For wax seals."

"'S nice."

"You can, too."

Race pushes the ring back down onto his finger and looks up. "What, wax seals?"

Spot shifts onto his side, hooks his fingers inside Race's shirtfronts. Curls them into a fist.

After a moment he exhales and _pulls_ , just the slightest bit.

"You're dumb when you're tired," he says, and inclines his head.


	2. Uneasy the Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before these last couple of days Spot would've bet anyone his management fee and a whole pile of Race's most expensive cigars that Jack Kelly was, at heart, a decent guy.

This time it's like flipping a switch. There's no between-time; Spot is asleep and then all of a sudden he's not.

He's half-draped over Race like a blanket, legs slotted in with his like they were always meant to fit. One arm circled tight around his waist and tucked under, one stuffed behind the thin pillow with his knuckles shoved against the headboard. His face is pressed in at the damp crook of Race's neck, lips so close to his skin he can feel his own breath bouncing back to hit his face.

"Jesus, Higgins, you're a fuckin' furnace," he mumbles.

A hand grips into his shoulder and shakes. Spot burrows his head down further and closes his eyes. "'M awake, quit shovin' on me."

"Mista Conlon?"

Spot's guts freeze up, as instant and shocking as if he'd been thrown in the Hudson in January. Too late, he mentally registers Race's hands (one firmly knotted in his hair, one on his ribs, curving around to his back), and how this _must_ look to anyone with eyes. _Spot Conlon, a fag_.

"Mista Conlon," the small voice says again, "Cowboy sent us."

 _Us_. Shit. Spot pulls back off of Race and sits up, slowly; Race makes a dissatisfied noise in his sleep and rolls over. There's two of them, a small kid Spot's never seen before who's looking at Spot like he thinks Spot might kill him, and the pudgy Irish kid who's always stealing Race's cigars and who isn't looking at him at all.

Just two. Both of them pretty low on the totem pole and both clearly terrified of him. That's good, at least. One would have been easier, but he can still do damage control with two.

He scrubs his hands through his sweaty mop of hair and says, "Talk."

"Mista Denton wrote a paper about the strike. We gotta get the word out to all the workin' kids," the little one says earnestly. Then he swallows and adds, "Sir."

 _Sir_ , even. "You say Cowboy sent you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's His Royal Highness King Kelly need little ol' me for? Seems like there's plenty-a you."

"The others won't come unless you do," the other one says in his grating low voice. What's his name again? Snitch? Sharpshooter? "They don't trust him. Or Denton."

Smart kids. Spot sighs theatrically, inspecting his ring. "I dunno, 'm gettin' pretty sick-a havin' to save Jack's bacon."

The first kid looks to the second kid for help, and the second kid says, "Give it to 'im."

"Mista Conlon," says the little one, digging in his pockets, "Cowboy gave us these, uh, to give to you an' Racetrack." He produces two cigars and holds them out on his grubby palm. Spot leans forward to take them.

Palinas, Race's favorite. Expensive. And _new_.

Bile rises in Spot's throat just looking at them. Sending two little kids in his place, instructing them to ask nicely first and then bribe if it started to look like he wasn’t going to get the answer he wanted. How very _like Jack_ that was.

If this was just about him, he would take the cigars and tell the kids to beat it. No question. Jack screwed him, and Racetrack, and all the rest of his boys for a new suit and a few dollars. Frankly, he could do with a lot less Jack Kelly or Francis Sullivan or whoever the fuck he really was in his life. (And if Spot just happened to run into him on the streets of Brooklyn, well, working kids got beat up all the time, didn't they? Especially scabs. It's a dangerous world out there.)

But. _But_.

Kings, at least good kings, don't just get to do whatever they want, and Spot is nothing if not a good king. He has subjects to think of. His own boys are getting shafted in this, too. If this thing spreads like Denton wanted it to, it could be huge.

The quiet, spiteful temptation to make Jack kiss his ring almost doesn't even factor into it.

He clears his throat and puts on his Indifferent Appraisal face. "Well, that changes things, don't it." He tucks the cigars in his shirt pocket. "I guess I can make time. Where?"

The little one's face lights up. "At the distribution house, sir."

"A'right," he says. "If I see Racetrack, I'll be sure to let 'im know."

The kid's eyebrows dip in confusion and he starts to say something, but the other one gives him a quick smack to the back of the head and says, "Thank you, sir. C'mon, Ducky."

Then they leave, Snipeshooter steering the little one in front of him by his suspenders.

Spot finally lets himself breathe and looks back down at Race, who is making a face in his sleep like someone is forcing him to solve a difficult math problem, and still putting off heat like a fireplace. Spot wants to touch him again. He thinks about how their sleepy jaws didn't quite fit right together and wants to try it again.

He stretches out one hand, tentatively, nervously, and lays it on Race's shoulder. "Hey," he says, shaking gently. "Race. Tony. C'mon, we gotta go."

 

***

 

Race is quiet on the walk over, and he's moving and holding himself more carefully than usual. Spot has to keep checking his stride so he doesn't get ahead of him, glancing over to see if he needs a hand. Hoping, a little, that he needs a hand. He should've offered when Race was changing—he could see him struggling—but he'd been too tripped up by the web of bruises on his back and sides and the novelty of the whole thing and his hands got nervous. So he kept them to himself.

Race stumbles.

"You want my cane?"

"Nah. 'M fine."

It's dark out, barely four in the morning. The streets are empty. Race told him he could touch him anytime he wanted, and he wants to right now, but he still feels like he needs an excuse. Out here in the open like this, anyone could be watching. Even now.

_Didja hear? Spot Conlon's a fag._

There's a small knot of seven or eight boys clustered around the Greeley statue, Boots and Specs and a couple of the younger kids (Spot sees the little one that gave him the cigars trying to make himself even smaller) and the sour-faced one nobody really seems to like. They get quiet when they see Racetrack and Spot approaching, and Specs holds out a cigarette for Racetrack, his face carefully blank.

Race frowns and takes it. "Where's the rest-a you?"

"Comin'," Specs says, and he points; Spot can see more of them making their way down the street opposite. "They was waitin' on you. Les went to get 'em."

"Well, we're here," Spot says lamely. He squints toward the distribution house. The heavy iron gate is closed and wrapped with a chain lock, and all the windows are dark. "So where is the traitor, anyway, huh? Ducky?"

He jumps at being singled out. "Uh, down in the basement. There's a window around that corner there."

Spot turns to Race, who's trying to light his cigarette with a shaky hand. He takes the match and lights him. "Thanks," Race says through his teeth.

"No problem. C'mon."

Race shakes his head. "You go."

"Come on, Race," Spot appeals. He's incredibly aware of the other boys' eyes on him. "You're a better talker than me."

Race blows out a long plume of smoke, coughing a little at the end. "If I even see him, I'm gonna deck him. I can't be startin' any fights right now."

Spot fixes him with a hard look, but Race doesn't bend, just rolls his eyes skyward and takes a step back to lean against the statue's base and says, "You're the diplomat here."

Spot sighs and squares his shoulders and says, "Fine, just. . . Wait here, all-a you," before setting off around the side of the building.

The alley next to the distribution house is dark, and it takes him a few seconds to locate the small window down near the ground. He crouches down and raps the thick glass with his knuckles.

It gives, swinging inward, and Mouth is grinning up at him. "Spot! We didn't think you were going to come."

"Yeah, well." He doesn't like Mouth. He seems to be the only one of them who doesn't. Spot doesn't like anyone who drops in out of nowhere with a book education and tries to tell him how to live, or how to conduct his business; he likes even less that Mouth knew him all of five minutes and decided Spot was too dumb to be straight with. "Get Jack, wouldja?"

Mouth ducks back into the basement and Spot hears a couple more voices down there (Denton, he thinks, and a girl too) and then Jack's blond head appears, and his shoulders, as he hoists himself up on whatever piece of furniture they've got under the window.

"Ay, Spot," he says nonchalantly, like it's just another day, like every single person he knows wasn't calling for his blood twelve hours ago. "You made it."

"Yeah, I made it," Spot replies, like he wasn't one of them, like he doesn't want to wrap his hands around Jack's throat and shake him till he turns blue.

Jack wipes at the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. "You, uh. You gonna support us, here?"

"Depends," Spot says lightly. "Lemme see it."

Jack leans back and asks Mouth for a paper, and hands it up to Spot. "Here."

He stands to read it. He's not even three sentences in when Jack says, "So, where's Race?"

Spot ignores him, walking a few steps away from the window. He can almost feel Jack's irritation.

It's good, no question. There's all sorts of damning stuff in there-- about the rally, the hired thugs with clubs and chains, the kid prisons. There's quotes from the newsies themselves, even, firsthand accounts, and the list of strike demands.

It's a serious paper. A _real_ paper.

He walks back over to Jack, who's looking itchy. "Well?"

"It's good," Spot concedes. "And the kids were right, it needs to get out."

"No, I mean—I mean, that's good, but—where's Race?"

Spot throws him a dirty look. "He don't wanna talk to you. He ain't exactly pleased with you right now, Kelly."

Jack huffs. "But I sent for both-a you."

Spot barks out an ugly laugh and says, "Oh, you _sent_. You _sent_ , did you."

"You took both the cigars!"

"The cigars were a cheap trick," Spot snaps. "I _know_ you don't think I'm that dumb."

"But you _took_ 'em!" Jack's shaking his head, agitated. "I just wanna talk to 'im."

"I dunno how much clearer I can _be_ about this," Spot says, pressing the flat bases of his palms against his eyes. "He don't wanna talk to you. He don't even wanna _look_ at you."

"He _has_ to talk to me!" Jack shouts—or just-shy-of-shouts; they're both trying to be relatively quiet—sounding like a petulant child, and that just about sends the last grains of sand into the bottom of the hourglass Spot generally thinks of as his patience. "He has to—" 

"Okay, _first_ of all," Spot hisses, dropping down to a squat in front of the window and jabbing a sharp finger into Jack's face, "he don't _hafta_  do _shit_. Not for you. Did you _see_ his face, Jack? Did you _see_ what they did to him? He oughta be in the fuckin' _hospital_."

Jack's moved back a fraction of an inch from Spot's sudden onslaught, and he swallows hard and says, his in-charge tough-guy voice wavering a bit, "We all got roughed up that night."

"You _ran_ , you chickenshit coward," Spot snarls. "You saw them comin' at him, you _saw_ them cornerin' him, and you _ran_. Somebody coulda been _fuckin' killed_. And _you ran_."

Jack's ears are turning red in the lamplight from the cellar. "I got arrested too, Spot."

"Oh, _big fuckin' sacrifice_ for you." Spot can't stop the words from coming; it's like they're lining up down his tongue and throat to jump out his mouth and personally smack Jack in the face one by one. "You took one punch and got a plush job handed to you, a job you couldn't even do right for _one day_ , by the way, we got the shit beat outta us and got _nothin_ '. You did what you wanted and left everyone in the wind, myself and your best fuckin' friend included. Classic _fuckin'_ Jack Kelly."

Jack at least has the decency to look slightly ashamed at that.

"So no," Spot concludes, leaning back on his heels, "you _don't_ get to talk to Race. He's pissed. _I'm_ pissed. We're all of us pretty damn pissed, Jack."

Jack's silent for a long moment, glowering there in the window, and then he says, in a sullen monotone, "They don't like you like they like Race."

"What?"

Jack isn't looking at him, exactly. He's staring fixedly at a spot in the air above Spot's left ear. "They're scared-a you. They'll do anything you say, 'cause they're afraid-a you. But they do what Race says 'cause they like 'im. If Race tells 'em they gotta forgive me, they will."

Spot stares at him in disbelief for a long moment, letting the full force of that statement hit him in the face.

"Spot?"

Spot looks up and sees Specs in the mouth of the alley, squinting down toward him. "Everythin' all right?"

"Everythin's good," Spot says, and Jack raises his hand with a quick attempt at his old winning smile and says "Hey, Specs."

Specs gives him the finger and leaves. Spot smiles at that. Always nice to see Jack's boys showing principle.

"This paper," he says slowly, tapping it with his free hand and turning back to Jack, "this paper, this—this _meetin'—_ you're proposin', Jack, are you doin' this 'cause it's what's best for everyone, or just 'cause you want everyone to worship you again?"

Jack makes that face, that infinitely hateable, disaffected face with the downturned mouth that just begs for a good punch and says, "I don't see why it can't be both."

A hollow, shocked laugh pushes its way out of Spot's lungs.

Spot's known Jack for a long time. Not as long as he's known Race, sure, but for a not-insignificant chunk of his life. He's been largely the same for much of that time; he's always been self-serving, always cared more about his reputation that anything else, and he's always been a prick, but the kind of prick that Spot could get along with and that when push came to shove (as it often did) could usually be counted on to do what was right. Before these last couple of days Spot would've bet anyone his management fee and a whole _pile_ of Race's most expensive cigars that Jack Kelly was, at heart, a decent guy.

Jack's pretty predictable, and Spot likes predictable. It makes business easier. None of this is out of character; in fact it falls right in line with everything Spot knows Jack to be. But somehow, he didn't see it coming.

He looks at Jack like he's never properly seen him before, and Jack looks right back like he knows _exactly_ what Spot's thinking.

All of a sudden Spot is very, very tired.

"How many papes you got in there?" he asks.

Jack leans back again to ask, and comes back with the answer, "Four, maybe five thousand."

"Gimme two."

"Two thousand?"

"'S what I said, ain't it?"

Jack looks wary. "You're gonna endorse me? After all the shit you just said?"

"I'll endorse your paper," Spot clarifies. "I won't endorse _you_. Get my two thousand ready. I'll tell the other kids to come back and start collectin'."

Jack's face sours again and he opens his mouth to speak, but Spot's already rising to his feet and adjusting his cane in his belt. "We're done here. And Jack, for your sake, I'd have Dave be the one runnin' the window."

He leaves before Jack can say anything else, and he hears the window click shut behind him after a few steps.

 

***

 

There's a lot more boys in the square when Spot gets back, huddled around the statue of Horace Greeley. Fifty or more of Jack's boys and a few of his own mixed in, all speaking in hushed tones like someone died, until a couple of them see him coming and they all fall silent.

Spot's never seen them this careful, or this quiet.

"Well?" Race asks, when he's close enough. "Is it legit?"

Spot feels the weight of more than a hundred expectant eyes on him, and nods. "It's legit."

The murmurs start up again, and a short, skinny kid with a pinched face to Spot's right says, "What about Cowboy?"

" _Fuck_ Cowboy," Spot says, and the whispering gets louder and Spot has to raise his hands to silence them so he can finish, "but the paper's legit."

They seem satisfied with that, and Spot directs them to line up in the alley along the distribution house. Race and a couple of his boys hang back against the statue.

"What do you want us to do, boss?" Charlie asks, stubbing out her cigarette.

Spot rubs his eyes. "I told him to put two thou aside for me. Go see if you can track down a cart."

"Got it," she says, and Softshoe adds, "You want us to rent it or lift it?"

Spot grunts, fishing a couple bills and his brass cigarette case out of his pocket and handing the bills over. "Whatever's quicker."

Race watches them take off and says, overly casual, "So, you leavin'?"

"I gotta." Spot takes out two cigarettes, one for him and one for Race. "Two thousand papes ain't gonna circulate themselves."

Race takes his and frowns down at it, twisting his scabbed lip between his teeth, and Spot gets a twinge in his gut as he remembers part of what Racetrack was yelling yesterday morning. _You leave every time_.

"Listen, I'm comin' back," he says quickly, after a glance around to make sure all the other kids are safely out of earshot. "Later today, even. There's s'posed to be another rally—"

"Well, hey, don't do me any favors," Race says in that same feigned breezy tone that doesn't match his moody face, lighting up with a match from his vest pocket. It takes him a couple tries. "I mean, I know you only come up here on business, so."

"Don't be stupid," Spot says, hurt.

"I'm not, 'm just sayin'."

"Well, quit it." Spot's exhausted, and just about tapped out, emotionally. He's no good with feelings; the past twenty-four hours have been a goddamn tornado for him. "I come here for you. Or I _stay_ here for you, anyway."

Race still won't look at him and his face doesn't change, but his silence takes on a different color. Spot can't tell if he's turning pink in the dark.

"I don't need that," he mumbles.

"I know you don't. I been here a week, Race, d'you really think I needed to be? Christ, if it was just business I'd'a been gone days ago."

Spot takes a moment to light his own cigarette, and looks back over at the crowd of boys in the alley—the ones that already got their papers are parked on the ground trying to read them in the scant light, and the rest are still in line to get theirs.

No one's paying any attention to them. He takes a step closer.

"Listen," he says again, quietly, "it's Brooklyn. It ain't the moon. I just gotta go home for a bit—stoke the fires, lead my army, okay? Make sure the kids've been feedin' my cat. And then I'll come back. Promise."

Race does look up at him then, and says, softening this time, "I mean it. Don't do me any favors."

"'M not, I swear."

They stay that way for a few minutes, just looking at each other. Spot wonders if Race likes looking at him as much as he likes looking at Race (a little less now, with the bruises, but that's not his fault). Then Race ducks his head, apparently examining a split in one of his fingers.

"Spot," he says into his collar, and Spot has to lean in to hear him properly, "what, uh. What we—we talked—what we, uh. Did. We don't have to. . . do that. Again."

Spot's mouth is very dry. "We don't have to."

"Right."

"But we _can_ ," he confirms.

A pause. "Yeah."

"Cause—'cause _I_ want to," Spot says, taking another step, closing the distance between them half a foot at a time, "but, y'know, if _you_ don't—"

Race's eyes flit back up to Spot's face, and he feels his stomach lurch forward in a very real way. "I want to."

Spot hears footsteps and sees Blink heading over, one stack of papers baled together with twine balanced up on his shoulder and another under his arm.

"Maybe when I get back," he suggests.

"Yeah, maybe." Race taps ash off the end of his cigarette and sticks it in his mouth, adjusting his posture.

"Here you go, Race," Blink says, holding out a bundle when he gets close, "grabbed you a hundred."

"Thanks, Blink."

"Spot." Blink stretches out a hand and Spot grasps it momentarily. He eyes Spot with a look that Spot can't quite read. "You doin' all right?"

Spot shrugs and says, "Yeah, survivin'."

"Yeah," Blink echoes. "Yeah, I hear that." He stares at Spot blankly for another minute, making the skin on the back of his neck prickle. Then he seems to snap out of it and turns to Race and says, "Hey, we oughta get goin'."

Race drops his cigarette and grinds it out beneath his toe, and pushes off the statue. "A'right, 'm comin'."

Blink shoots Spot a small, tight smile, and takes off. Race steps closer to Spot, right up in his space, face determinedly pointed at his collar. Crowding him. If anybody else did that Spot would soak them purely out of principle, but he doesn't move. 

Race takes Spot's shirtfronts in his loose fist and pulls. Spot doesn't breathe.

"When you get back," he says, and Spot nods, and then Race leaves too.


	3. Amendments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot's electric when he's like this, Race thinks. Magic. Practically crackling.

Spot does come back. Even though he said he would, Race wasn't actually expecting him to, but he does. Earlier than he said he would, even, and in true Spot Conlon fashion, leading a herd of his boys like a goddamn general and brandishing his cane out in front of him like a sword.

Jack always made fun of Spot's "king" fantasies, but Race doesn't think he's seen anyone the title fits better.

He comes in with his boys and he joins them, and when the word comes down from tiny Les with his clasped hands on Cowboy's shoulders that they've won he throws his arms around Race, beaming so hard his face looks like it could split. The touch makes Race's skin burn and he feels his stomach swooping upwards, and everyone's whooping and hollering and embracing and no one's paying them any mind, and Race loops his arms around Spot's waist and lays his hands just shy of his hips because he can.

He stays long after he needs to, after Snyder gets taken away and the cheering dies down to  a gentle swell of amicable conversation, after the names are taken and the promises made, and poses for pictures with his arm clamped tight around Race's shoulders, answering questions for both of them for reporters from not one, but three ( _three!_ ) different papers, that stupid sunlight grin plastered across his face.

He's still there when someone starts passing beer bottles around and yelling at them to share because he couldn't get that many, and Race grabs one and slugs half of it down and passes it to Spot who takes a drink with no hesitation, but when Jack reaches out for it with a sheepish smile Spot looks him dead in the eye and coughs right into the mouth of the bottle, and Racetrack laughs. The first real, genuine laugh he's had in days. It bubbles up in his chest like warm sunshine and soaks out into every part of his body, and soon he's doubled over, belting out laughs with his hands on his knees like it's the funniest goddamned thing he's ever seen.

Jack's annoyed. Spot joins in.

He's still there when Race is determinedly not looking _not looking_ at Jack climbing into Roosevelt's coach with his face hard and his mouth drawn thin like a line, and leaving without even so much as a wave.

He's still there when the mill girls and the factory boys peter off with handshakes and hugs, and Blink and Mush start shouting about taking this party over to Tibby's. He crams into a booth next to Race and drapes his arm over the back of the seat, and pays for the whole table.

He's still there when the restaurant is closing, and the thirty or so kids who haven't gone back to the bunkhouse after the last few days of exhaustion move out into the golden summer evening in a slaphappy, noisy pack over to the pool hall on the next street.

They play five long games with an audience, Spot and Race versus Blink and Charlie, passing a beer and a cue between them. It's all showmanship, and Spot's a performer. He's loud and brash and he takes the piss out of Race, but in a good-natured kind of way, merciless without being _too_ mean, and Race laughs because he's got a good sense of humor about himself, and everyone else laughs because Spot is _funny_ when he wants to be. He keeps the mood light and the conversation off of Jack.

And Race actually gets to be in his element for once. With Jack you always had to fight for the limelight, but Spot's comfortable sharing. Race swaggers around the place, cracking jokes, talking shit, making dirty gestures behind Spot's back. He swipes Charlie's playing cards from her back pocket while she's bent over the table and tries to distract Spot by doing magic tricks. He gets _laughs_ , which is so rare for him these days. He feels lighter. More like himself.

He can't stop looking at Spot. He's alive tonight in a way Race doesn't often see him. Color high in his cheeks, green eyes too bright. Laughing easy at all Race's dumb jokes, smirking when Race calls him a chicken for not wanting to put money down on the game. Pulling him along for the ride.

Spot's electric when he's like this, Race thinks. Magic. Practically crackling. He loves this Spot. He wants to bury his face in this Spot's neck and hear that laughter like music in his ears and never come up for air.

He's still there when the gang spills out onto the cobbled street, giddy voices filling the air, and starts making its way toward home. He and Race are the last two out the door and they follow for about half a block before Spot grabs Race by the back of his suspenders and yanks him into a dark alcove next to a closed print shop.

"Call me a chicken again," he breathes into Race's mouth. His hands are clenched into hot loose fists on his shirt and he smells like cheap beer and cinnamon and home. "I fuckin' dare you."

"Why don't you _make_ me, tough guy," Race challenges, and Spot makes a strangled noise and lurches forward and latches onto his mouth.

This, _this_ is more like it. All day Race has been thinking about their sleepy stumbling kisses like two drunks colliding in the dark, and now it's happening so fast he barely has time to think of all the ways he promised himself he'd do it better next time, if there was ever a next time. He feels his lip split open again and doesn't care. Spot's tongue is in his mouth and he tastes like _energy_. He touches touches touches, pushes and presses with his shaky fingers everywhere he can think of quick enough to make his hands do it. Along the edges of Spot's face, into his hair, down his chest and around and over the hard flat juts of his shoulders and spine, landing finally on Spot's hips where he presses them together and— _oh, hell_.

And Spot, Spot is sucking on Race's mangled lower lip like it's candy, like he _wants_ , hands trembling flattening out on Race's chest and wrapping themselves down around his ribs, pressing tight—too tight—Race hisses in pain, and Spot jumps back.

"Sorry," he breathes, "sorry."

"Quit fuckin' sayin' sorry." Race licks blood from the corner of his mouth and tugs Spot forward again. "You didn't do it."

"I know, but." Race can just make out the lines of Spot's face in the dark, see his shoulders rising and falling. He reaches up toward Race's face, shaky fingers hesitating and curling back toward his palm once, twice, then grazing cautiously at the edges of the shiner spreading down over his cheek.

"This is nothin'," Race says, itchy at being fussed over. He cracks a grin. "You oughta see the other guy."

Spot's eyebrows pull up in the middle. He looks guilty, ashamed. Seeing it makes Race's insides lurch.

Spot Conlon is the toughest newsie—the toughest _kid_ , period—in New York. He doesn't give a shit about fighting himself, and gets into brawls as often as he issues commands. The occasional scuffles are to be expected; they're part of the everyday scenery when you're a newsie, and practically mandatory when you work for Spot. When one of his kids comes to him with a black eye or a fat lip, he tells them to walk it off. If it's bad, they get a day or two off while Spot and a chosen few of his lieutenants go out looking for revenge, but no more. He doesn't worry, he doesn't coddle. He has a reputation for being a hard-ass, and his boys respect him for it. They don't come to Spot looking for a mother.

But _this_ , somehow, is Spot, too, this boy with the guilty face like he did all the damage himself, and hands that are gentle when Racetrack has never once in his life seen them that way. Sharp, stubborn, deliberate, damaging; precise, but never careful. Never gentle.

Race doesn't know how to categorize that.

"Hey," he says, and he pulls Spot's suddenly different hands down from where they've been mapping out his bruises, "I'm fine, yeah?" He leans in, presses his lips in at the edge of Spot's jaw. "Still walkin' around, ain't I?"

"I shoulda got to you," Spot says thickly into his collar. "Your mother would kill me."

"Mm, she'd kill you anyway," he murmurs. "She always hated you."

He immediately freezes, wondering if that was an inch too far, but a second later Spot laughs, and the tension in his neck eases under Race's mouth.

"You're a prick, y'know that?"

"That's what they tell me."

Spot steps back and pulls out his cigarette case. He only lights one, and passes it to Race after taking a long drag. "Think we should catch up?"

"Yeah." Race pushes off the brick wall. His ribs are still sore, and he's still a little bit drunk; he sways slightly as he follows Spot out onto the street.

 

***

 

The common room is packed, noisy and bright at a time when it's supposed to be empty. As soon as Kloppman went to bed the cards and the marbles and the drinks came out, and the party started up again.

Sometimes when it's like this Race finds himself a wall (or, better, a corner, but both are more about security than anything else; he's been jumped too many times in his life to feel entirely comfortable with his back to anyone) and just. . . observes. He loves the attention, drinks it up like liquor when he's got it, but he's a gambler at his core. Seeing what people do when they don't think they're being watched is crucial. In Race's opinion, it's the most neglected element of the trade.

Right now he's parked on the floor dangling a beer loosely between his knees, and watching Spot murder the other boys at marbles. Race has always been garbage at the game himself, but he can't remember a time when he didn't like watching Spot's long (precise, deliberate, _careful_ ) fingers take aim. And if he's being honest, he could look at Spot all day. He doesn't need the excuse.

For one thing, he's beautiful. _Not handsome,_ Race thinks, but beautiful in the same way some girls are. Classic, like a painting. When they were kids Race used to draw Spot over and over and over, frustrated that even when he got every line _just right_ it couldn't compare to the real thing.

Not that he would ever say that to his face; Spot's looks are a bit of a sore spot. He'd been catching hell for his high cheekbones and pretty pink lips all his life before he made a reputation for himself.

For two, he's _interesting_ to look at—he never stops _moving_. His fingers twitch and tap; he fidgets with his ring, twisting it with his thumb, pulling it off and pushing it back down again; he sucks at his teeth; he rolls his neck, cracking it; he lifts his hat to rub a hand through his hair and jams it back down. Every so often his eyes flick over to where Race is sitting (but never quite up to his face), and the corner of his mouth quirks up just barely.

Kid Blink drops suddenly into the space next to him, jostling him and nearly spilling his own beer. "Budge over."

"Yeah, just sit anywhere, why don't you," Race says, but he scoots a couple inches anyway. He likes Blink. Doesn't know him as well as he ought to—that's Mush's territory—but likes him.

"Weird, innit?" Blink says. He sweeps his hand out vaguely at the room. "Celebratin', without Jack."

Race snorts, lifting his bottle to his lips. "He'll come back. Always does. Like a bad penny." 

It does feel weird, though he'd sooner get another set of brass knuckles to the face than admit it. Noise, laughter, cards, drinking. Revelry. Jack should be in the middle of it.

He _would_ come back, right? Of course he would. That was Jack's way—he skipped out when things got shitty or when everybody wanted to strangle him, and when he showed up again everyone would be so happy to see him they'd forget they were ever mad.

 _Yeah, but he didn't have_ money _then,_ a small nagging voice in the back of Race's head reminds him, and his stomach does a flip. _And it was never this big_.

Jack would almost ( _but not totally_ ) certainly be back. He didn't have the time or energy to trick a whole new crop of kids into loving him. And if he _did_ stay gone, well, good riddance. Right?

_You're gonna have to make that a lot more convincing if you ever say it out loud._

"Course he will," Blink says, amicably enough. Then he points. "Think someone should tell Davey?"

Race scans the room and finds Dave planted on the floor in the corner opposite, looking absolutely wrecked. He looks like he just watched his dog die in front of him.

Race likes Dave, he really does. But there are things he's not ready to forgive him for just yet. Like his smooth, unbloodied knuckles, for instance. Or, less recently, for replacing him.

"Nah," he says nonchalantly. "He can find out the hard way."

Blink grins, his scarred cheek crinkling up under his patch. "Great minds. You got anythin' on him yet?"

Race has discovered five of David's tells. There are probably more. "Nah, nothin' yet."

They fall into an agreeable silence. Race watches as Skittery lines up a shot, and Spot cocks his head and smiles like a shark when he misses.

"So," Blink says, following Race's eyes, "you and Spot, huh?"

Racetrack accidentally swallows too much beer and chokes on it, slopping some out of his mouth. "What?"

Blink doesn't seem to notice. "You two, bein' back together. 'S nice. Like old times."

"Oh. Yeah," Race says, wiping his chin with the heel of his hand. "Yeah, it is."

After a moment Blink says, "He's nicer, wit' you around. Lot more human."

Race digests that, while Spot ruffles Skittery's hair patronizingly and sweeps all his best shooters into a small brown bag. "I think maybe I remind him of bein' a kid."

"Did he like bein' a kid?"

"Not really. Well. . . parts of it, I guess."

"The parts with you in 'em?"

"I'd like to think so, yeah."

Blink makes a thinking noise and settles back next to him. Spot gets up and heads over to get another beer from the bucket in the corner, and stops to watch the game of five-card stud Dutchy is currently pulling his hair out over.

"Race?"

"Mm."

"Mush and I was talkin'. . . That lady who comes around sometimes, lookin' for her son. . . is she. . ."

"Molly Conlon," Race says, keeping his voice low. Best not for Spot to hear. "Yeah."

"Wow." Blink fiddles with a hangnail and asks, like Race knew he would, "Why don't he go home, then? If he got a mam who's lookin' for him?"

Race shakes his head. "That's his business."

"But—you know." Not like he's pushing, just confirming. Like someone else knowing a secret about Spot Conlon makes him even a little more human. More—what's the word? _Accessible_ , that's it. One of those ten-cent words Denton is always throwing around like they don't cost him nothing.

Spot comes over to their corner with a fresh bottle in his hand, and Race straightens up to allow him some room to plunk down. "Evenin', gents, whatta we talkin' 'bout?"

"Davey's sour puss," Blink says without missing a beat. Spot swivels to look, all his movements exaggerated by booze.

"Oh yeah," he concurs, in a pretty satisfied kind of way. "Looks like his dog just died."

Spot _hates_ Davey. Race would never, ever let anyone else's opinions inform his own (or at least that's what he tells everyone), but that might be another reason he isn't particularly eager to lift his spirits anytime soon.

"Hey, speakin'-a sour pusses," Spot says, turning back around to gloat, "you see how bad I trounced Skittery? He'll be cryin' for a week."

"Won't that be a nice change," Race says, and Spot laughs, fanning the coals burning low in Race's belly to a warm glow.

Blink takes a long swig off his beer, draining it, and wipes his mouth. "I better go comfort him in his time of need." He rises to his feet unsteadily. "Catch up with you lowlifes later."

The area Blink had been occupying suddenly feels bigger. Race feels miles of it, a vast, yawning pocket of space to his left. On his right, Spot butted up right against him, his bony hip digging into Race's thigh.

"You shoulda joined in," Spot's saying. "We coulda run a con on 'em."

"Don't a con require more than one-a us to be good at the game?"

"I could teach you."

Race snorts. "You tried teachin' me once, 'member? I think I just got worse."

Spot grins, bumping his shoulder into Race's. "I didn' want you gettin' better than me."

He should move, he knows. It would look better if he moved. He can't make himself do it.

"You, uh." Spot looks down at his hands, both wrapped around his bottle. "You stayin' here, tonight?"

"Where else I got to go?"

"My place. You could—you could stay."

"What, you don't like Manhattan?"

"Oh on the contrary, I love it here," Spot says matter-of-factly, "but in Brooklyn, I got an apartment, and a kitchen, and a real bed with real pillows and a blanket—"

Race's face is hot. "Sounds downright deluxe."

"Don't it?" Spot twists his ring up over his knuckle and back down. "I thought you might—maybe wanna come use 'em for a night or two. I figure, y'know. You've earned it."

"That all? I _earned_ it?"

Spot's mouth briefly purses in a tight frown. "Don't be stupid."

"Ask me straight, then."

Spot swirls his beer around for a minute and takes a long, thoughtful swig. When he speaks, it's in that low voice he has, quiet as a whisper, pitched for secret instructions and pointing out tells. The voice he used yesterday when he told Race he wanted to touch him. "Come home w'me, Race."

Race's mouth is very dry.

"I'll even cook you eggs in the mornin'," he adds, like he's trying to sweeten the pot. "I don't promise they'll be _good_ , but—"

"Spot—I want to," Race says, and he does, _oh lord does he ever_ , "I really do, but I. . . I can't leave tonight, not when everybody's celebratin'. 'Sides, Jack gone and all—can't leave these idiots by theyselves. . . "

If Spot catches the lie, he's good enough not to say so. "'Course," he says. "Shoulda thoughta that."

He looks out at the room, twisting his ring absently. On the other side of the room, Mush and Bumlets have got Davey under the arms and are trying to get him to his feet, without a whole lot of success.

"But—but you could stay here," Race says quickly.

Dave manages to stand, and yanks away from Mush. Next to Race, Spot goes curiously still.

"Interestin'," he says, after considering a moment. "Here, you say? That's. . . That's interestin'. . . "

Dave takes a few shaky steps and stumbles into Skittery, who pops up and into Dave's face like some perpetually pissed off Jack-in-the-box. Dave retorts, slurring, and Mush gets between them, knocking Skittery's itchy hands out of the air. Race feels his face growing hot.

"If you want to," he says.

"Only if you want me to," Spot replies.

Spot's warm against him and he can _feel_ the heat leeching into his skin, sinking into his bones. He imagines it like water paints, vibrant reds and golds blooming out in tendrils to color his own browns and grays.

Mush plants his broad hands on Skittery's chest and shoves. Skittery throws a sharp fist at Mush's face, and Mush ducks. The blow hits Dave square in the chops.

"Upstairs?" Spot asks.

Mush swings back; when it lands, the whole room suddenly lurches to its feet at jerky double speed, and Race jumps up, hauling Spot with him by a fistful of his shirt.

Everyone is scrambling over each other in their haste to get to Skittery and Mush. Elbows get shoved into sides. Knees dig into backs. Bottles break with musical crunches. Someone else throws a punch and another fight erupts a few feet away from Spot and Race.

Nobody is paying any attention to them.

" _Now_ ," Spot says.

Race lets go of Spot's shirt and makes a break for the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is currently 12.26.2016 and I AM FINALLY WORKING ON THIS AGAIN. My BSW sorta got under me and kicked my ass for 2 years and I completely ran out of steam, and I had to abandon my first Kingdom Hearts fic because it just sort of felt too big, but this one has a special place in my gay little heart and I just sort of got a big ol' second wind. I can't promise when chapter 4 will be up but I think it'll be up pretty soon. 
> 
> Sorry (not really, but a little). It will get finished! I promise!!


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